Thirty-Seven
by virtualcorpse
Summary: It hurts so much that the only future she'll ever have with him is one in which she's counting the days he's been gone / Set in season five– Emma's thoughts and feelings after Killian died. Slight canon divergence because I played with the timeline a little bit.


**Okay so. I don't expect many people to read this (I can't be the only one who skips author notes, right?) but if you do, I have some disclaimers.**

 **This is my first fanfic. I'm not the best writer but I just decided to go for it because fuck it. Or something like that. Also, my writing style is not for everyone– it's very figurative. I understand if you don't like it tbh I don't even really like it. I have some song suggestions for those of you who might want to listen to one while reading this: City Lights by Motionless in White, Last Kiss by Taylor Swift, Uncle Bobby by Flyleaf, Still Life by Dawn Golden, and Play Crack the Sky by Brand New. The rating is because I say fuck a lot lol**

 **I don't own OUAT. I mean... do you really think I would have let Hook die in the first place if I did?**

* * *

She still expects to wake up from it.

Like the whole goddamned thing is nothing more than a bad dream– one that sinks its pointed canines and sharpened claws in her flesh and pulls, making her sink deeper, deeper, deeper into the surreal reality.

When Emma wakes up on Tuesday morning in her house, she has to bite her fist to keep from screaming. She had hoped, prayed to a god she doesn't even believe in the night before, that she would wake up at the loft. She would have smiled, relieved that she wasn't the Dark One, that she never had been. Then she would pull her covers up to her chin, her smile growing wider as the scent of pancakes fills her nose. She would eat breakfast with her parents before heading out to the station to deal with paperwork, or one of the dwarves complaining about seemingly nothing, or tracking the Snow Queen. And she would do it all by his side.

But none of that happens. It doesn't happen because she doesn't live at the loft anymore, and her parents don't make her breakfast anymore, and there's no Snow Queen to deal with anymore, and Killian isn't alive anymore.

It's a nightmare she'll never wake up from.

She rises up to a sitting position in the bed too big for just her, tucking her legs against her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and resting her chin on her knees. She glances out the window for a brief moment, eyes immediately averting when the sunlight shines mercilessly in her retinas. Her gaze lands on the sleeping form to her right and her breath catches.

He's splayed out on his stomach, arms tucked underneath the pillows. He looks so peaceful, Emma doesn't dare wake him. His eyelashes kiss his cheeks in his slumber and he looks so young, like the burden of his long life can't reach him when he's dreaming. Careful not to disturb him, Emma reaches her right hand out, fingers threading themselves in his raven colored hair. She smiles, tears filling her eyes, and whispers that she loves him and that it terrifies her, but it's worth it, he's worth it.

She blinks, and he's gone, was never there in the first place.

She lets out a breath she didn't even know she was holding, and heads down the stairs to make coffee.

* * *

The coffee doesn't help wake her up, not even a little bit. All it does is make her heart race and does nothing to lift the exhaustion weighing down on her. She thinks about making something to eat, like toast or eggs or waffles or fucking anything, but the mere thought of food almost makes her gag.

She knows she ought to eat– she can't even remember the last time she did– but she can't. Not now, not yet, not anytime soon. And that alone is enough to piss her off, because it's something so fucking _simple_ yet she can't do it because she's too fucking sad.

Emma curses under her breath as she feels the pinprick of tears fill her eyes. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" she exclaims, louder each time until the word bounces off the (too) empty walls in the (too) empty room. She is acutely aware of her arm flinging her coffee cup across the kitchen, sending ceramic and black liquid cascading down the fridge and onto the floor.

Then she's crying even harder because she doesn't even _like_ black coffee, she likes an obscene amount of sugar and an unhealthy quantity of creamer yet she was drinking it black and she didn't even notice.

She's almost positive the entire house could catch fire around her and she wouldn't notice.

* * *

The rain starts three days after his death.

It comes on Thursday, light showers in the afternoon, and a heavy downpour by nightfall. It comes down hard, pelting the ground with a vengeance. Thunder cracks the clouds in half and lightning splits between the broken pieces. The sky lets out a chorus of remorse, three days late, but better late than never. Right?

* * *

Emma is convinced it may never stop hurting.

It's been seven days since he died and that alone makes her think she'll never get over it, get over him– she's tallying the days in her mind, holding onto the time passed because she can't hold onto him. She wonders if she'll still be counting one month, two years, three decades from now and it hurts so fucking much that the only future she'll ever have with him is one in which she's counting the days he's been gone.

* * *

It's 4am and it's disgustingly hot in Emma's room. She longs to open the window but she fucking _can't_ because she lives by the ocean and the ocean just reminds her of Killian. And, if she's being honest with herself, it's not like he's very far from her mind to begin with.

It doesn't take much to get her thinking about him; the slightest reminder of his existence (or lack thereof, now) setting off a chain of thoughts strewn about her mind messily, unorganized clutter rattling in her brain. Leather jackets remind her of her pirate wearing the material head-to-toe, regardless of the weather conditions. Alcohol reminds her of the rum he always had handy and the flask he carried around that was seemingly bottomless. The color blue reminds her of his eyes, arguably the most striking feature on him, as blue as the sea he's so fond of.

And the ocean.

The ocean makes her think of drowning. In the way he smelled– like rum and sweat and musk. In the way he tasted– spicy yet sweet, salty, and something uniquely Killian. In the way he felt– hard yet gentle, rough yet soft, comforting. Drowning in him, always him, it's never been anyone but him.

She doesn't open the window.

* * *

The house makes Emma sick.

It's big, too big just for her (she knows at some point Henry will live here, too, but she can't won't doesn't want to subject him to the mess she's been as of late, so he stays with Regina). Every appliance is too fancy, too expensive, too _not her._ The darkness told her she needed to buy the house, that maybe if she did, he would come back to her. It told her she needed to buy the newest, shiniest items on the market, that maybe if she did, it would hold her interest long enough for her to forget she was doomed, _they_ were doomed. It told her she needed to take everything she could get her hands on, that maybe if she did, she wouldn't feel so alone in the empty house.

Now the whole fucking place makes her feel sick to her stomach. The backyard that once seemed lush and inviting now just looks pathetic to her; the garden too unattended, the grass too unworn (and she's not thinking about a child running across it– a little girl with raven hair and green eyes, or a little boy with blonde hair and blue eyes– she's fucking _not_ ). The kitchen, fully stocked with food she can hardly eat these days, hangs over her head, torturing her with images of forgotten pancakes cooking on the stove, arms wrapped around her waist, his voice whispering in her ear. The living room laughs in her face, dangling _what ifs_ and _could have beens_ right in front of her, planting thoughts directly in her brain, roaring fireplaces and bottomless bottles of rum and stories of what life was like before they met each other. The bedroom stars in her dreams, filling her mind with pictures of skin on skin, moans and sweet words coating the air between them, kisses that ignite her bones.

She feels like a ghost in her own fucking house, like she's haunting the hallways of everything that should have been.

* * *

She decides to go get him ten days after his death,

The decision is an easy one; once the idea pops in her head, she knows she has to try. Not just because she loves him, but because he deserves it. And she's going to bring him back even if he wants nothing to do with her after all the shit she put him through, even if all he does is tell her to go fuck herself, get on his ship, and leave.

And, honestly? It's not like she would blame him. She hates herself for what she did, too.

* * *

What she wasn't counting on was anyone going with her.

Emma knows her family loves her, but traveling to the Underworld to fetch the man she isn't entirely sure they fully approved of in the first place? Well, it's no trip to Disney World, that's for sure.

* * *

Leaving him behind in the Underworld is one of the hardest things she's ever had to do. It adds insult to injury, she thinks, that she found out he was her true love not but five minutes before she said goodbye without actually saying the words.

Every step she takes is heavy, the burden of losing the man she loves (again), weighing down on her. Making her way to the portal feels like a near impossible journey because her feet will hardly lift off the fucking ground, each step heavy and, honestly, she's surprised her bones haven't snapped under everything she lacks. She knows now that she was so stupid for falling for Hades' tricks. Looking back on it, she realizes the only reason she did was because she was desperate for a solution and, so much so, that she didn't even notice it was fabricated.

Hindsight's twenty-twenty, and all that.

She looks back before stepping through the portal, like maybe he'll emerge from behind the graves, call her name, tell her to wait up. And she'll laugh, assure him she wasn't planning on going anywhere without him. Then she'll grab his hand, or hook, she doesn't care as long as she's holding onto him, and they'll step through the portal and they'll leave the Underworld and its version or Storybrooke and its empty graves.

But he doesn't step out from behind anything because he stayed exactly where she left him when she didn't say goodbye. She knows the closest thing she'll ever get to seeing him anywhere near a grave is where he's buried six feet under the earth, and he can't emerge from that.

* * *

She feels horrible for Regina and Zelena. Never in a million years would she have wished what happened to her on anyone, even two women she used to see as evil.

Hades was a monster. She has no problem admitting that, but Zelena doesn't deserve the pain of losing the man she fell in love with. Emma knows Hades had ulterior motives for everything he did, but the former Wicked Witch's feelings were as genuine as they come. If the ruler of the Underworld asked Zelena to jump off a cliff, Emma has no doubt in her mind that the poor girl would have done it.

Robin, though, never deserved any of the shit that came his way. If somehow, though, he was given the chance to do it over, Emma knows he would have made the same choice– even a blind man could see that he would do anything for Regina, even if it killed him.

It hurts her to think about Robin and Regina, and everything they fought for, but she thinks about it anyway because it's better than thinking about Killian, and the cliff she willingly dove headfirst off of.

* * *

She tries so hard to focus on everything going on around her, but she can't because she's hurting (grieving, her parents would argue, as if there's a fucking difference, as if it fucking matters) and it's too much for Emma to handle.

It turns out she _was_ the one who couldn't handle it.

He was right about that much, it would seem. It's so painfully obvious to her now that the illusion that she had the upper hand was just that– something she told herself so she could pretend she had some sort of control.

She remembers Killian asking about it one time, questioning why she always had to have some sort of leverage. "You're doing what's best for you," he had said, and his words dripped off his tongue onto the floor between them. They glided their way over towards her feet, snaked up her legs, crawled over her stomach until they pressed down on her chest– heavy enough to hurt.

"No," she had countered, shooting daggers at the pirate before her. "I'm doing what's best for Henry."

The topic was something they had discussed before– why Emma was running back to New York after the Wicked Witch of the West was defeated. Since the conversation was one they had repeated often, Emma already knew how it was going to go. She would insist she was doing it for her son, Hook would insist her intentions here utterly selfish. And she was _so_ not in the mood for it. Turning on her heel, she started to stomp away.

But this time, Hook had something else to say. Something that caught Emma's attention. "Why do you feel the need to control everything?"

She turned around, her expression surely one of exasperation. "Excuse me?"

His gaze had locked with hers and it almost startled her how vulnerable he looked in that moment. Blue eyes sad yet wistful, posture slightly slumped, almost tired-looking, hand and hook hanging limply by his sides. "What's the worst that could happen?" he asked her, his tone soft, genuine. "What are you so afraid of, Emma?"

She continued to study him, as if by looking at him she could determine what he wanted from her. Except she already knew, didn't she? He wanted her heart, her love, _her_. And that was something she was never going to give– couldn't give.

She had realized then that he was right about her all along, he was always right about her. He read her like the open book he claimed she was. He had seen right through her.

She knew, in that moment, that her sky high wells never really stood a chance against Hook. And it scared her.

 _What are you so afraid of?_

Nothing.

Everything.

She was terrified to fall in love because falling just results in fractured bones, scraped knees, broken hearts. She was terrified to give her heart to anyone because they could break it, and she was afraid to give it to him because she knew he wouldn't.

"I'm not afraid of anything," she had answered. It was a lie and they both knew it.

 _What are you so afraid of?_

The cliff, of course. The cliff she so desperately wanted to jump off of.

* * *

The rain still hasn't stopped, sixteen days after his death.

She walks in a brisk pace, arms wrapped around her body in a vain attempt to shield herself from the cold. She's rushing, although she has idea why, seeing as she's actually dreading this.

His grave is simple, grey granite with black lettering. That's it. Not a single thing about him as a person. Honestly, what did she expect? Rumpelstiltskin made it, said it could take up to a couple months to have the carvers, sculptors, engravers– whatever they're called, she wasn't really listening, too lost in her own world, the world in which Rumple was talking about a headstone for the man she's in love with because he's fucking _dead–_ make it, so he offered; it would take him seconds. So, with a snap of his fingers, Killian Jones had a grave marker.

And Emma is standing in front of it.

She casts her eyes heavenwards, feeling the rain smack against her face. It hasn't stopped raining for two weeks, and she almost laughs at the fucking cliche. But she doesn't laugh because if she laughs she might cry, and she can't start crying because she's afraid she'll never stop. So she doesn't. Instead, she squares her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and looks back down at the tombstone.

"I miss you," she says softly. "I… I don't think I'll ever stop missing you."

She glances down at the bouquet of red roses in her right hand and it hits her, then, how fucking stupid they are. She curses herself, the self loathing building and building until she's sure it's going to spill over, seep down into the earth, join Killian six feet under.

The roses are a cliche. They're a fucking cliche just like the fucking rain pouring from the sky. He doesn't even likes roses, he likes daffodils.

Had liked.

* * *

She carefully maneuvers to the living room, careful not to spill the hot chocolate in her hand. She plops down on the living room floor, snapping her fingers to ignite the fireplace. She watches the wood crackle and, eventually, dwindle down to ash for what feels like eternity. She hears clocks tick in the distance, but time doesn't pass, doesn't even exist here. An hourglass breaks and she watches the sand spill to the floor. She reaches forwards and sifts the granules between her fingers, transfixed as the grains stick to the layer of blood coating her hands.

* * *

Emma lost count of how many nights she had stayed awake in the bed at her parents' loft, picking butterflies out of her stomach.

Whenever Hook was around– which was often, even back then– they would flit about her face until she accidentally swallowed them. From there they would fly around desperately, slamming against her rib cage in a vain attempt to escape.

About halfway through one of her sleepless butterfly-picking nights, she noticed that their wings were the same color as Killian's eyes. So, she picked those, too, and stuffed them under her mattress. They would flutter when she was sleeping, lifting the bed off the ground.

She checks under the mattress at her new house, but there's nothing there.

* * *

On the rare occasions in which Emma braves the storms raging outside and leaves the house, she can feel people staring at her. She feels their eyes on her like tiny glass shards cutting into her skin. She tries to pick the pieces out of her flesh but it's no use when they keep on looking. She hears their whispers float in the air and they crawl in her ears and nest in her brain until all she can hear is a jumble of gossip, "dead for almost a month/hardly leaves the house/depressed, if I had to guess/loss/dead/love/dead/dead/dead." She swats the air, like maybe she could knock the words to the ground before they reach her.

Twenty-two days finds her at the pharmacy Sneezy owns, a box of tampons and a carton of ice cream in her hands. She's waiting in line behind two teenagers buying condoms. She has glass sticking out of her arms, legs, neck and words climbing up her body but they don't notice.

"Emma?"

The glass crashes to the floor, shattering on impact, and the whispers scurry back to the mouths of those who spoke them, and Emma turns around.

Archie.

"Emma, I knew it was you."

She stares at him for two, four, six seconds before realizing she's supposed to respond, that normal people who aren't depressed, if she had to guess/leave the house/ don't have a dead lover/dead/love/dead/dead know how to uphold a conversation. "Hi," she says, lamely.

He gives her a slight, sympathetic smile. "How are you feeling?" His eyes search face, as if maybe he could find the answer written in the bags under her eyes or the dull, almost lifeless complexion that makes up her face. Who knows, maybe he could.

"I'm okay," she replies. She tries to make the words sound convincing, but they fall short, dropping to the floor next to the broken glass she's trying not to step on.

"I've been meaning to get in touch with you," the former cricket tells her, his voice soft. "I think it might be a good idea for you to stop by one of these days."

She plasters on a smile, stepping up to the now teenager-less counter and places her things down before turning back to Archie. "Thank you, but I'm doing well enough." She takes out her wallet, nodding hello at Sneezy, fake smile still firmly in place.

"Well enough according to who?"

The words make Emma freeze in the process of fishing out a ten dollar bill. 'According to who?' Now just what the fuck was _that_ supposed to mean?

"Please, just… Come by." He's out the door before she gets the chance to respond.

* * *

Emma hears the front door open thirty-seven days after Killian passed away, and all at once she regrets giving her mother that fucking key. For three fucking weeks Mary Margaret has been dropping by unannounced, making her breakfast ("You have to eat something, Emma."), vacuuming the carpet ("A house this big needs cleaning often, Emma."), or sitting on the couch together while some stupid sitcom plays on the TV ("That was kind of funny, don't you think, Emma?") and it's too much and not enough at the same time.

She hears her mom ascending the stairs but she can't find it in herself to get out of her (their) bed. She's lying down on her back over the covers, ankles crossed and hands locked and resting on her stomach.

A knock sounds on the door. She wishes a hole would open up beneath her and swallow her whole.

Then there's a telltale creak as the door opens. She tries to tune it out, listens to the rain pounding against the window. She's so fucking sick of the storms. At this rate, the sun may never come out for years, if it does at all.

"Swan?"

* * *

 **If you want to review that would be litty sorry I lowkey suck balls at writing LOL**


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